by Jeff Gulvin
Sarah’s blue VW Golf was parked in the drive. He knew it would be but the sight did not make the knowledge any easier. Suddenly it brought the reality of everything home to him, perhaps for the first time. Morrison and Hamilton and the flat overlooking the street. Now he was here he was not exactly sure what he was going to do. He could smell smoke on the wind from the chimney.
As he approached he could see light, fading the shadows from around the lip of the curtains. A sound came to him then, above the whine of the wind. Music, he swore he could hear music. The front door was not locked. He looked closely at it but it had not been forced. Quietly he turned the handle. Immediately the music drifted to him, violin; he could not place it but he had heard it before. It was low, coming from the sitting room, where orange light flickered through the crack in the door. Vanner shut the front door as soundlessly as he could and stood in the darkness of the hall. The music toyed with him. Tragic, haunting. He recognised it, a tape his father had given him. Tavener, ‘The Protecting Veil’. Suddenly it cut him to the bone. He opened the sitting-room door.
The fire seemed to drift in the grate, the faint flickering of flame. A row of burning candles dripped from the mantelpiece. And then the breath died in his throat. He could not move any further. The floor, every inch of carpet from the window to the door was laid out with photographs of the little girl. In some of them she was alone and in others her mother held her, or her father, sometimes both; as if each of them needed desperately to keep a hand on her. The music chewed at him. There was no sign of Sarah. He stared still at the photographs. He could feel a draught coming in from the kitchen.
The back door was open; the wind must have blown it for it had been closed when he came in, unless … He stepped towards the darkness.
‘Sarah?’ There was no reply. He went outside and stood in the garden. The wind whipped him from the headland. There was no fence, just the grass and the cliff and the fifty-foot drop to the beach.
‘Sarah?’
Still no answer. The beam from the lighthouse suddenly glowed across the lawn. Vanner started. A figure in black at the cliff edge.
‘Sarah?’
‘Hello, Aden.’
Vanner peered through the gloom at her. Though his eyes gradually grew accustomed, she remained no more than a shadow.
‘You went to Scotland.’
‘Yes.’
‘How’s John?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘Is he married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Children?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes.’
For a moment she did not say anything. ‘A girl?’
‘No. Two boys.’ The music broke over him from the house.
‘You guessed, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘Come for me?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes.’
Neither of them spoke after that, as if neither of them could. Vanner was aware of a pain in his gut, the pain of old; the pain he said he would not have again. ‘It was all a long time ago, Sarah.’
She seemed to stare through the darkness at him. ‘It was yesterday.’ And then her voice faltered. ‘You see—the pain, Aden. It never goes away. I mean, it never goes away. You just don’t get any better.’
‘For him, too. John, I mean.’
She fought tears. ‘He wasn’t strong, Aden. When I needed him to be strong he was weak. I needed strength. I needed comfort. I needed him to be a man.’
‘And he let you down?’
‘Yes.’ She was crying. ‘He let me down. He did nothing. Somebody took our child and he did nothing. He just wanted to put it behind him but he couldn’t even do that. He fell to pieces.’ She stopped speaking. ‘You were right. I tried to kill Black. After that I kept it all quiet, tried to put it behind me. I tried to think good rational thoughts. Justice, I thought. There must be justice. So I joined the Police Force. Can you believe that—join the Police Force for justice?’ She broke off. ‘Then I met you, Aden. You weren’t like other men.’
Vanner closed his eyes. Daniels’ head, whipping back like a punchbag.
‘Meggie’s killer,’ she was saying. ‘He’s still out there. Maybe he has children of his own now. I wonder if his wife knows what he did.’
Vanner took a pace across the grass.
‘Stay where you are. I have the gun, Aden. Please just stay where you are.’
Vanner shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like you thought, Sarah. With me. It wasn’t like that.’
‘Yes it was.’
He could see her more clearly now, very dark against the waning sky behind her.
‘He should’ve been like you, Aden. Strong. Cold. Just.’
‘But the law, Sarah.’
‘What law? There is no law.’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘No I’m not. You know I’m not. No one’s frightened of the law.’
‘You took the gun from Hammersmith,’ Vanner said. ‘You want to give it to me now, Sarah?’
She shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
He stepped forward again. ‘Morrison thought I took it.’
‘He was getting close to you, Aden. Too close. You have a past. You were their scapegoat. I couldn’t allow that. The Watchman was mine. My responsibility. Not yours.’
Vanner let go a breath. ‘You led me to Black didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You never went near the computer.’
‘No.’
He nodded. ‘And Meggie’s picture—in the drawer?’
‘Her anniversary. It was time, Aden.’
Vanner thought of Hamilton out on the hill.
‘Did you love me, Aden?’
He closed his eyes, said nothing.
‘You did. I know you did.’ She moved against the skyline.
Vanner stiffened. ‘D’you want to give me the gun, Sarah?’
‘Are you going to take me back?’
‘I have to.’
She laughed. ‘So they can put me away. Do psychiatric tests on me. Put me in Broadmoor. That’s where I’ll go, Aden. Broadmoor.’ She was quiet for a moment. The wind seemed to die. ‘I don’t want that. If I give you the gun, will you kill me?’
Pain spat at him. ‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘No, Sarah.’ Vanner looked at the ground.
‘I understand. I’m sorry.’
He looked up. She was not there. Her shadow had gone from the cliff edge. All he could see was the lip of the lawn and the expanse of the sky beyond it. The wind lifted once more. He ran to the edge and looked down. ‘SARAH.’ The wind took his voice from him. ‘SARAH.’
He ran along the headland to the line of rickety steps that descended to the beach. Clattering down them, he jumped the last flight and landed in sand that reached to his ankles. Spray stung his face and he stared along the pale line of the shore to where the cliff rose to the cottage. He found her, crumpled over the breakwater.
In his flat, Christmas dawning outside, he sat at his desk in his study. He stared at the wall in front of him, empty now of the photos. He looked at the shelving rack that rose alongside him; files, photographs, memories. Jane gone, Sarah dead, and voices in his head, echoing out of the past. Daniels, head whipping back like a punchbag. Ulster, dark nights, lampwashed streets and the smell of death on his breath. Things that should long since have been left behind. He closed his eyes, saw again the flat above her house and wondered just exactly what separated them. He took a file from the shelves and slowly turned the pages. The face of the dead man looked up at him. War, Aden. It was war. And an unarmed man lying dead in the gutter. Twisting his head up he saw the picture of himself in uniform; the original, copied by the press during the investigation. He studied it. The picture in her flat was a newspaper cut-out of the same. Just what was it that separated them? Before him on the desktop lay the photographs of his wife from the wall. Young then. He and her, she and him, the two of them together.
Him in uniform, her in that summer cotton dress. Their honeymoon in Corsica. For a long time he sat there and stared at them.
Suddenly he stood up and dragged every file, every picture from the shelves. He piled them one on top of the other then, lifting the metal waste bin to the desk, he took out his lighter and burnt them.
He sat before the uniformed members of the disciplinary panel. The chairman looked carefully at him.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Vanner,’ he said. ‘Will you stand up please?’
Vanner stood and as he did so he caught McCague’s eye. McCague nodded to him.
‘The charges brought against you were very serious,’ the chairman said, ‘particularly for an officer in your position. Under normal circumstances there would be criminal proceedings. Undoubtedly you would be dismissed.’ He paused, letting his words hang in the air.
Vanner looked blankly at him. They had buried Sarah next to her daughter. Hamilton’s idea. A good one. Her coffin had looked very small as they lowered it into the grave. Six feet, such a long way into the ground.
‘However,’ the chairman was saying, ‘because of recent events and the satisfactory conclusion of Operation Watchman …’ Vanner stared at him, ‘we have decided that loss of rank is a more appropriate punishment.’
Vanner started shovelling his papers into one another. The chairman was staring at him. ‘Chief Inspector?’
Vanner was not looking at him. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘Just forget it.’ Stuffing the papers into his bag, he strode out of the room. He walked the length of the corridor and out into the street.
Sorted
An Aden Vanner Novel
Jeff Gulvin
For the Nail File Gang
I’d like to say a special thanks to my agent and friend, Ben Camardi, whose support, consistency, and advice has allowed my career to keep rolling when it looked like the roads were closed.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Acknowledgments
One
THE WASP CLIMBED CONCRETE steps in the darkness. On the second landing he paused and lit a cigarette, the damp of the night on his face. A boy skipped down the steps and almost bumped into him. The Wasp clutched a handful of collar. He held him, drew him close and inspected him like a hunter his prey. The boy shrank back, face disappearing into the hood of his sweat top. The Wasp pushed him aside.
Ninja sat in the flat, resting an E on his thumbnail. He flipped it into the air and tried to catch it in his mouth. He cursed as it fell out of the line of his vision. In the kitchen the girl ironed his T-shirt. The doorbell screeched in the hall.
‘You finished yet?’
The T-shirt spun through the air and landed across his arm. He peeled it over his head, the weight of his hair falling across his back. The girl hung in the doorway, looking at the rain through the open windows. The doorbell screeched again.
‘You coming back later?’ she said.
Ninja reached for his cigarettes. He met The Wasp on the landing.
Vanner nursed whiskey and chasers in the corner of the pub. Through the window behind him, a fan belt squealed in the rain. Two motorcyclists swapped engine notes and cackled hysterically afterwards. A fat man pushed against his table as he passed, slopping beer onto the mat. Vanner glanced at him, then dipped his finger in the spilt beer and traced a mark on the table.
‘Vanner.’
He looked up at McCague.
The phone rang in the hall. From the arm of the chair he lifted the remote control for the TV and turned the sound down. In the hall he picked up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me.’
‘I’ve told you not to call me here.’
‘Your mobile’s switched off.’
‘What d’you want?’
‘Are we on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘It’s a mistake. There’s no need.’
‘There’s every fuckin’ need. You ought to be where I’m standing.’
Silence.
‘You listening to me?’
‘It’s on. All right.’
‘I want to hear about it.’
‘You will.’ He hung up and stood for a moment in the darkness. Then lifting his coat from the peg, he went out into the rain.
McCague pushed himself into the seat next to Vanner. ‘Come here a lot do you?’
‘That some kind of offer?’ Vanner scraped a cigarette from the emptying pack on the table and fumbled with his lighter.
‘You look like hammered shit,’ McCague told him.
Vanner pulled on the cigarette.
‘How long’ve you been sat there?’
‘A while.’
‘Go home.’
‘Later.’
‘You’ve had enough.’
‘If you’ve come here to lecture me—you can fuck off again.’
McCague squinted at him. ‘No wonder you drink on your own.’
At the bar a man slid off his stool, glanced at Vanner and made his way to the payphone. Vanner finished his whiskey and set down the empty glass.
‘Where’ve you been?’ McCague asked him. ‘You don’t answer the phone.’
‘I’ve been around.’
‘Not so’s anyone would notice.’
Vanner shrugged.
‘You look awful, Vanner. You living on whiskey and cigarettes?’
‘What’re you—my nursemaid?’
‘Think yourself lucky I’m interested.’
The Wasp drove. Ninja sat next to him, one hand pressed against his belly, his half-length Samurai sword on the floor by his legs. The Wasp glanced at him. ‘Bad guts?’
Ninja nodded. The mobile rang on the seat beside him. He lifted it to his ear and listened.
‘Let me speak to The Wasp.’
Ninja offered the phone, slack-handed. The Wasp took it from him. ‘We’re on our way,’ he said.
‘Good. Eversholt Street. He’s drinking in the King’s Head.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘I just know. I’ll call you in the morning. Make sure you get it right.’ The phone died and The Wasp passed it back to Ninja.
McCague bought more beer and set the glasses down. Vanner was sitting straightbacked, staring at the table top. McCague looked at his cigarettes.
‘Help yourself.’
McCague shook his head. ‘I’ve only just packed it in again.’
Vanner drew a cigarette from the pack.
‘How long’re you going to keep this up?’ McCague asked him.
‘Keep what up?’
‘This. You’re pissed and it’s barely ten o’clock.’
‘Pissed? I’m not even merry.’
‘You only lost one rank, Vanner. DI. There’s still a job if you want it.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘They could’ve ditched you you know. There’s those that pressed for it. Especially after you walked out on the hearing.’
Vanner shook his head. ‘Sarah Kenriett was barely cold and they’re sitting on me like vultures.’
‘That’s why you’re still technically a copper. They took it into consideration.’
‘And I’m supposed to be grateful?’
McCague signed. ‘So you’re not coming back then?’
‘I never go back.’
‘Right.’
Vanner looked at him. ‘What d’you expect, McCague? You really think I’m going to just walk on back with my hands up and my prick stuck in my mouth.’
McCag
ue scraped at a palm with his thumbnail. ‘It’s only one rank, Vanner. But they won’t wait forever.’
Vanner was quiet for a moment. ‘Where’s the DI’s job anyway?’
‘2 Area Drug Squad.’
‘Who moved on?’
‘Westbrook. DCI with 13.’
Vanner looked at the barmaid, chatting to a couple of punters. ‘She’s Australian,’ he said.
‘Aren’t they all.’ McCague glanced at him. ‘You going to let this bug you forever?’
‘Let what bug me?’
‘Oh, come on. You know what I mean.’
Sarah Kennett. A face in his mind, flesh on his flesh and darkness over a cliff. He closed his eyes and swallowed the dregs of his glass. McCague looked at his watch. ‘You want another or have you had enough?’
Vanner gave him the glass.
He stood watching from the inside of the window. No music tonight. Just the darkness and rain falling against streetlamps. From the other room, he could smell alcohol. Anton Cready. He wished he could have watched, but Cready was very particular. He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. He moved to the desk where the computer screen was dark. Idly, he dragged his fingers over the keys and then took out his handkerchief and wiped them. Hands in his pockets now, he moved back to the window. He looked at the row of unopened watches on the shelf and smiled to himself.
Vanner watched McCague push his bulk through the crowd and hand the glasses to the barmaid. He looked beyond him, gaze blurring into the bottles that lined the back of the bar. Christmas Eve on the Norfolk coast. The wind howling over the cliff and the shadow of a woman and then nothing. If he closed his eyes he could relive the darkness now. He did not close his eyes. He watched McCague come back with the drinks.
McCague sat down next to him. ‘The DI’s job’s yours if you want it. The word is in, but the board won’t wait forever.’ He looked at him. ‘Back on the street, Vanner. Where you belong.’
Vanner thought about it then, through the haze of drink that swathed his brain in a bandage of numbness, which he had to fight now to penetrate. He felt vaguely queasy and crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. People thronged about their table. He could no longer hear rain on the window. McCague looked at his watch. ‘I’d better go,’ he said.
